


both foul and fair

by lovelylogans



Category: Sanders Sides, Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders
Genre: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders - Freeform, Bad Puns, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders - Freeform, Cuddling, Gen, Hypothermia, Logan cuts his hand but it's not very graphic, Logic | Logan Sanders - Freeform, Morality | Patton Sanders - Freeform, Sanders Sides (Video Blogging RPF), minor injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 06:50:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12721698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: Logan takes a moment to turn slowly in a circle, to witness this artificial form of winter mimicked to near-perfection, the world's faults smoothed over so professionally it almost wasn't noticeable, to breathe in and feel the burning cold as acutely as if he's in an actual forest—"Keep up, four-eyes!" Roman shouts.Moment of appreciation broken.





	both foul and fair

If the blame could possibly be pinned on any singular person, in Logan's relatively unbiased opinion, that person would be Roman.

There are several reasons as to why Logan has reached this conclusion, but primarily for this: it happened in Roman's realm, which Roman made. Ergo, Roman's fault.

....perhaps  _relative_ is the key word in the phrase  _relatively unbiased._

The "bonding time," however, was originally Patton's idea. The other three had been rather slow to warm to the notion, but Logan has found the outings mostly pleasant. There had been occasional conflicts of timing with Logan's  _very_ particular working schedule, and it was difficult to go through any period of time together without at least a bit of bickering and backhanded commentary, but it was still mostly enjoyable.

Patton usually had big meals they all cooked together (or tried: Patton would tactfully take over with quite a few side-quests that tended to result in an overabundance of charcuterie boards) and board game nights; Virgil would have movie or video game or music nights; Logan would have quiet evenings spent with coffee and book recommendations for the others and music in the background; and Roman, well. Roman was the wild card. 

That particular day was Roman's day to decide what to do, and Roman entreated them all to join him in his realm. From there, the day would take its form based on whatever Roman had in mind: there had been an enjoyable day lounging by a lakeside, when the weather had been warmer, and a sleepy night spent stargazing during a meteor shower, among others.

"We're going on an adventure," Roman declares brightly as soon as Logan steps through the door, jamming something atop Logan's head. "Bundle up, Wall-E!"

"Cease and  _desist,_ " Logan splutters, hands jerking to the hat as he took a step back—cozy, knit, wool, and oh, fantastic, a rather obnoxious decorative ball on the top hat, wonderful. The flaps over his ears would be beneficial in ensuring a decreased risk of frostbite, though, and he rather enjoyed an article on the history of the ushanka and other hats—

He shakes himself. "Clearly, I would be Eve."

"Logan's right, Roman," Patton says, busy fussing over Virgil, who is seemingly refusing to wear a coat atop his usual hoodie. Virgil and Logan take a moment to exchange a despairing glance, which Patton either doesn't notice or cheerfully ignores. "Logan would be Eve, and I'd be Wall-E, and Virgil could be that cute little cockroach—"

Logan straightens his glasses, as Roman's knocked them askew, in the midst of Virgil grumbling angrily about his role in the movie, and Roman's just trying to _be a nuisance,_ but Logan knows better than to voice his frustrations so early in the day. He goes over to the table instead, as it's laden with winter wear.

"Tell Logan about your plan today, Roman," Patton says, now jamming a pair of earmuffs onto Virgil's head, ignoring Virgil's squawks about his bangs.

"Oh, it'll be wonderful," Roman says—somehow making a puffy red-and-white winter coat that went down to his knees look like the height of fashion. "There'll be hot cider, and we'll go through the Winter Wonderland to go sledding, and then we'll get back here to bundle up in front of the fireplace with some cocoa and we'll roast marshmallows—"

Patton claps his hands in delight. "Like a snow day! Now, everyone, we've got to get all bundled up—"

Logan reaches for a sleek, black athletic jacket, ideal for the innermost layer, cutting off Patton's words. He's researched the ideal methods of dealing with the cold, though Thomas lives in a warmer climate. He's already running over how to decrease risks of the less savory aspects of being cold—the repeated application of warm beverages throughout the day would be helpful.

He tugs on a similarly puffy jacket—black, blue detailing, with a cheery  _Logan!!! ☺_  scrawled in Patton's handwriting on the tag. Next a blue pair of gloves, a blue scarf, and a cursory straightening of the cap Roman had forcefully bestowed on him.

Patton's decked out in sky blue and gray—Logan spies the cat hoodie beneath his puffy jacket, and he's wearing a hat that's a similar style to Logan's, in addition to a scarf and mittens. Virgil, finally having sulkily agreed to get on with the day, is all in purple and black, grumpily adjusting his earmuffs with en-gloved hands. If Logan's not mistaken, they're the model of earmuffs that double as headphones—and, yes, there's distant strain of Virgil's music. 

Roman, after ensuring that everyone's put on their winter boots (blue for Patton, black for Logan, red for Roman, purple for Virgil—Roman often delights in whenever he gets to dress them, however indirectly, and therefore goes the extra mile whenever he gets the chance) flings open the door, sending a blast of cold air into the house. "Onwards, men!"

He traipses cheerfully out into the snow, and with a sigh, Virgil follows, hunched over himself. Patton happily claps Logan on the shoulder, and with a sigh, Logan follows after him.

They're barely five minutes into the walk when Logan has to admit that he is (grudgingly) impressed: Roman's truly outdone himself this time. It rather looks like they've stepped into a postcard. They've set off down a plowed path in the midst of woods. The air smells of pine, and cold, with the faintest whiff of mint on the slight, nippy breeze. Fat, fluffy flakes fall gently from the clear white sky. There's already an even, undisturbed layer of snow over everything, making the world seem incredibly quiet.

What was that line he'd read? Ah, yes, Sarah Addison Allen— _“It was magical, this snow globe world.”_

Logan takes a moment to turn slowly in a circle, to witness this artificial form of winter mimicked to near-perfection, the world's faults smoothed over so professionally it almost wasn't noticeable, to breathe in and feel the burning cold as acutely as if he's in an actual forest—

"Keep up, four-eyes!" Roman shouts.

Moment of appreciation broken.

He sighs, and hastens after them—they've turned a corner, and a frozen-over river cuts a neat ribbon between the trees. On their side is an abandoned wooden stand, where Patton's helping Roman hoist what looks like a steaming cauldron before them. Logan's sense of smell is overtaken then—apple, most predominantly, and cinnamon, and possibly nutmeg, or cloves—

"Here you are, Lo," Patton says, cheerful, pressing a lid onto the paper cup  before pressing the cup into into Logan's hands. "Careful, it's hot!"

Logan curls his hands around it, enjoying the way the heat seeps into his hands, even through his gloves. Patton hands a cup to Virgil next, who tips his cup at Logan in a sarcastic toast (it has been a mystery, most of their lives, how nearly everything Virgil does has some kind of sarcastic slant to it) and then Patton waves Roman off and ladles a cup for him next before getting one for himself.

Virgil's eyes narrow at the cauldron. "Seems dangerous to take a drink from an unattended cauldron in the middle of the forest."

Leave it to Virgil—though, in the real world, Logan would be inclined to agree with him. As it is—

"My imagination, my rules," Roman says happily, waving a hand so the cauldron vanishes. "The witches are all holed up in their cottages, they hate it when I make it snowy. We can get refills at the sledding hill, we're nearly there."

Logan takes a second to survey the environment. It seems like a very pretty river, even frozen—in fact, he might have come close to following this exact path when the whole of Roman's realm had been decidedly more summery, back when the other three had been close to napping in their post-picnic stupor.

"Roman, were there those _nymphaea candida_ specimen right around here in the summer?" Logan asks, now he's wondering.

"Nympha-what? Nymphadora? I didn't peg you for the one to start the Harry Potter talk, but if you insist—" Roman says, lowering his cup, glancing away from where Patton and Virgil are making mini snowsides.

"The river lilies," Logan says with a sigh. "White petals, yellow centers?"

"Oh, yeah, I suppose," Roman says. "There might have been."

Logan disguises his sigh by taking a sip of the admittedly delicious cider. Relying on his own memory then, he supposes, however unreliable that may be.

"Could we ice-skate on this river, Roman?" Patton gasps, looking up from what Logan thinks is snow-Patton, though it could also be snow-Logan.

Roman says, "No, this wouldn't do! We could go back to that lake we went to in the summer, though, that would be a nice rink for us. The ice on the river would probably be too unreliable."

Virgil shifts uncomfortably at that. "Couldn't you make it, you know.  _More_ reliable?"

"If we were going to ice-skate on it, certainly," Roman says, though without the bite that might have been in the statement a year prior. Virgil tilts his head, conceding the point, and Patton busily affixes a pine-needle-sash to what must be snow-Roman, mittens off, eyes narrowed in concentration. "The lake would be our best bet, though. No crumbling bridges or uncomfortable stopping points. We can go ice-skating next time."

Logan tries not to shudder. Lots of falling onto cold, hard surfaces, and Roman can probably secretly figure skate like an Olympian. He hopes Roman gets distracted by whatever idea takes him next.

Roman and Logan wait for Patton and Virgil—mostly Patton, Virgil seems to be in charge of snapping little sticks and pine needles to appropriate sizes for props—to finish making their snowsides, finishing their cider. Logan hangs onto his cup—if there'll be refills at the hill, he's disinclined to make waste, even imaginary waste.

Patton pauses, before he adds a little snowman in the middle— _Thomas,_ Logan realizes, and Patton carefully adjusts the arms of snow-Thomas and each of the snowsides to go over each other's shoulders, like they're posing for a picture. Patton nods in satisfaction, and moves to stand, yanking his mittens back on and shaking out his hands.

"A wonderful facsimilie, Patton," Roman enthuses, crouching to snap a picture with his phone, and then a selfie with them, because of course.

"Good job, Pat," Virgil adds, and Logan echoes, "Indeed."

"Aw, thanks, guys," Patton says. "Let's go get some more cider, though, my hands are freezing!"

Roman laughs and claps him on the back, and off they go—Patton and Virgil, then Roman close behind, and Logan trailing after him, the pair of them trying to take his steps in their footprints—they're off the plowed path, now, and he doesn't want snow to get into his boots and wet his socks.

The snow grows thicker and thicker, and Logan loses sight of the river. The snowfall has stopped, leaving them with snow that must be half a foot deep—Logan would measure if he had an implement with him, but he doesn't, so he's left with an estimation. The trees have thinned out, and the world is blindingly white—the only way they all know where they're going is to trust Roman, a horrifying thought.

They've resorted to a single-file procession—a line of Patton-Virgil-Roman-Logan, Roman calling "It won't be long now!" and "Just past this bend!" as they plod along. 

Logan is about to ask if this is the fastest they can go when they all hear it.

_Crrr-crrrr-crrrrr....._

They all freeze where they're standing, Virgil wobbling—he'd been about to put his foot down where Patton's foot had just been.

Patton himself had frozen, arms held out away from him for balance, and he swallows enough that Logan, as far away as he is, can see his Adam's apple bob.

"Patton," Logan calls, trying to infuse a sense of authority into his tone, but a thread of fear works its way in anyways. "Virgil, if you'd just bring your weight down and distribute it evenly along the ice—"

_Crrrrrrrrr—_

And then, all in one movement, Patton moves faster than Logan's panic-ridden mind can track—he swings his arms from where he'd been holding them out, and shoves at Virgil's chest, hard, sending Virgil sprawling away from him, away from the river, and with the loudest, angriest  _CRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR—_

"Patton!" Logan shouts, and his voice seems to harmonize with the final crack—because Patton looks up enough to meet eyes with Logan, arms pinwheeling, when he's suddenly swallowed up by the water.

It boggles him—Patton there one moment, gone the next, as if this is some kind of magic relevant to Roman's realm, vanishing in less than a moment, and he's frozen to the spot, arms reaching as if he'd have been able to grab Patton and haul him back to safety—

Later, when Logan's reviewing the events in his mind, this won't surprise him, but at the time it does—Virgil is the first to react, throwing himself onto his stomach— _distributing his weight evenly across the ice,_ Logan thinks dimly—and looking down into the crevasse that's swallowed Patton up, only black water greeting him.

"Spread out!" Roman barks, and Logan rushes to oblige, the pair of them throwing themselves onto their stomachs and sweeping aside armfuls of snow, squinting through the ice, to the dark water below, eyes scanning the depths below, until—

— _a faint pale hand, he's lost his mitten_ —

"HERE!" is torn from Logan's throat, almost too desperate to be described as a scream, and he waves a hand desperately at Roman, who seems to understand what he needs immediately because in the next second there's a hammer in his hands, and he slams it down on the ice as close as he can get to Patton without hurting him, and again, and again—

Logan's barely thinking when he shoves his arms into the water, the cold hitting his arms so hard it  _hurts,_  and it's taking too  _long,_ every second one they might lose sight of Patton, and he closes his hand around an arm and  _pulls—_

Distantly, he's aware of someone's hands holding at his legs, his waist, to make sure he doesn't fall in after him, and they hasten forwards to help haul Patton up, out of the water, onto his back, and what he sees  _terrifies_ him.

His face is too pale, and too  _still—_ Patton is their emotion, he should be laughing or listening earnestly or smiling or frowning, not this blank  _thing—_

Logan's about to bend, plant his ear over his mouth to see if he's breathing, but Patton beats him to it—he lets out a cough, barely turning to keep himself from spluttering on the water, and Logan hastily shoves his hands under his head, to tilt his head to the side to keep him from choking on the water again.

"Right," Roman says, looking uncharacteristically ruffled, eyes wide, "Logan, what do we—what do we—?"

"Home," Logan says, and the word's barely out of his mouth before they're all crouched in Roman's living room, Patton still coughing weakly.

"Right," Logan says, taking a moment to draw his hand over his face, and then, "Right, Roman—start a fire—Virgil, get some blankets, as many as you can, and something warm for him to drink—"

There's the sound of two different sets of boots thumping off, doing what they're assigned to do, and now Logan has to fix it, _he has to fix it_ —

He's struggling to undo his own coat zipper with his burningly cold hands, but he manages it and throws off the puffy coat before he sets in on Patton's, ridding him of his puffy coat and his singular mitten before there's more thudding and Virgil drops the blankets on the ground and sets in on the cat hoodie, allowing Logan to get to work divesting himself of his soaked clothes.

"Logan," Virgil says, voice threaded through with, well, anxiety, jostling Patton with his desperate attempts to get off his wet clothes as fast as possible. Patton barely even stirs. "What are we doing here?"

Logan's struggling to get off his inner jacket before he finally manages it, leaving him in his short-sleeved shirt. He grabs a blanket and wraps it around himself, and picks up three blankets, draping them over Patton, trying to ensure that all of his previously exposed skin is covered as he talks.

"We need to get these wet clothes off and make sure he gets dry. His body's lost heat faster than it can produce it, so we need to help warm him up."

 _Thud thud thud,_ yes, that's Roman running flat-out, juggling a variety of things, slamming down to his knees before the fireplace as Logan wraps Patton in blankets up to his ears.

"Water's unfortunately good at conducting heat away from your body, so he's lost heat much faster than if he was exposed to the elements the way we were. We need to make sure he can sustain a healthy core temperature, so that means blankets, a fire, and warm liquids—"

_Logan has no idea what he's doing, he has to fix it, he has no idea what he's doing, he has to fix it, he has no idea what he's doing, he has to fix it—_

He grabs another blanket, barely managing to throw it over his own shoulders before he wraps the rest of his blanket around Patton, pulling him close, holding Patton in his lap.

"Virgil, get him that something warm to drink," he says, terse, and Virgil hesitates before he scuttles off, Roman cursing as he fumbles with a matchbook.

He notices Patton's eyes are drifting shut, and Logan pokes him angrily in the ribs, once, twice, three times, before Patton's eyes open a little more, gaze unfocused, still so  _expressionless_ —

"Patton," Logan says, and pokes him in the ribs again, until Patton's head manages to swivel towards him, as much as it can when they're in such close contact. "Hey. _Hey_ , Patton, what does a dinosaur wear when it's cold?"

Patton blinks. Once, twice. 

"A _Jurassic Park-_ a," Logan blurts out, too nervous to let him finish his thought. "Get it, Patton? Like the movie? And the segment of the Mesozoic Era? Get it?"

Patton blinks at him more, and Logan pokes him again, desperate. He needs to keep Patton's attention, and he needs to keep Patton from falling asleep. He's talking about the only thing that's coming to mind, something that would captivate and keep Patton's attention, and those are the awful jokes that come on the back of the chips that Logan likes to eat to fuel a late night brainstorming session, the jokes Patton love and Logan never understands but memorized anyways. 

"Where does Frosty the Snowman keep his money?" He presses, and Patton's head dips worringly. " _Mo_." Another hard poke to the ribs, and Patton rests his head on Logan's shoulder with a shuddering breath. "Where does he keep his money?"

"A s-s-snuh," Patton mumbles into Logan's neck.

"A _snow bank_ , that's right," Logan presses on, voice tight, why isn't there a  _fire,_  and he tucks his hand against Patton's cheek, keeping him upright, keeping him awake. Patton blinks at him again and again. "You're so smart, Patton, that's exactly right. Keep those guesses coming. What kind of math does Hedwig like?"

Finally,  _finally_ a fire starts up in the fireplace, and Roman swivels towards them as Logan bites out, " _Owl_ -gebra, Patton, she likes _owl_ -gebra, see? Because she's a snowy owl?"

Yes, there, the slightest twitch of a lip. That's a good sign. He thinks.

"What do chefs call Baked Alaska in Alaska?" Logan asks.

"Whuh," Patton mumbles.

"A baked here," Logan says, and there's a little huff of air from Patton, so close to a chuckle. Logan wriggles them closer to the fire, so Patton's closest to it, Roman throwing in old newspapers as fast as he can crumble them, building the fire high.

"Which side of an Arctic Tern has the most feathers?" Logan presses.

Another twitch of the lip. "Ousside," he sighs.

Logan laughs a little, giddy with it.  _That sounded like a word! That's even better!_ "So clever," Logan says. "Okay. Um—"

"Why do seals swim in salt water?" Roman picks up, and Patton sways towards him, only Logan's arms around his waist keeping him upright. Roman looks—a little nervous, a little scared—but it's gone in a flash as he grins and does jazz hands and declares, "Because pepper water makes them sneeze!"

Something that could conceivably be related to a snort.

Virgil crashes in from the kitchen, somehow hauling four mugs and a steaming kettle without dropping anything.

"Patton," he pants, and Logan doesn't even have to help Patton move his head that time, "What do you get when you cross a snowman and a vampire?"

Roman stands to help Virgil fill up the mugs as fast as possible, and Patton's chin settles on Logan's shoulder. Logan pokes him in the ribs again, sharp, and Patton mumbles incoherently.

"Frostbite!" Virgil says, fingers threading together, biting his lip.

"Good," Logan says, and pokes Patton again. "Did you hear, Patton? Frostbite!"

"Goo'ne," he slurs. "S'good."

They keep them coming as Virgil and Roman work on making cocoa for all four of them— _why don't mountains get cold in the winter? they wear ice caps! what do arctic hares use to keep their fur looking spiffy? hare spray! what do you call a cold ghost? casp-burr!—_ and Logan has to keep poking Patton, even as Logan feels more and more like a person. Control over fire, he thinks—there is a reason that it was the most revolutionary discovery and invention in human history, spurring mankind to progress to the point they are at today. 

But Patton is still shivering hard enough that his teeth clack together, even with the extra blankets, and his back to the fire. He's still barely responding to the jokes—more slurred mumbles, huffs of air, smiles that look more like winces. Virgil, visibly worried, lifts the mug to Patton's mouth so he doesn't have to disentangle from the blankets, and Patton flinches back, spitting.

"Burns," he chokes out. "Too hot—"

Virgil's brow creases in concern, and Logan can see why—he'd barely waited for the kettle to heat, so the water is only a few steps above lukewarm. It would be a fine temperature for any of them to drink, except—

Logan's busily wracking his brain for the article he'd read years ago— _handle the person gently, limit movements to those that are necessary. Move the person out of the cold, remove wet clothing, cover the person with blankets, monitor breathing—_ but what else, what  _else,_ they're missing a step—

So how would Logan get warm on a cold day? Wear blankets, stay dry, what  _else—_

And it hits him so suddenly that he barely resists smacking himself on the forehead.

"Roman, Virgil, would you two come over here? I think I know something else we need—"

Logan's loath to leave Patton in this state, but Roman and Virgil seem to both understand—with a bit of bickering, Patton's laid down on his side, as curled up as he can be, with Roman pressed up against his back and Virgil against his front, Virgil keeping a close eye on Patton to ensure he doesn't go to sleep. Logan discards the blanket he'd had around his shoulders, and he hears a sucked-in breath.

"Logan, your hand," Virgil says, almost getting up but remembering himself at the last moment. Logan stares at his hand—still bleeding sluggishly, and he sees the slight stain on the dark fabric of where his hand had been resting on the blanket.

"I'll bandage it up," he says, standing. "Roman, your first aid kit's still in the bathroom—?"

Roman nods, and Logan sets off to gather his supplies, setting a quick pace. Now that he's aware of the injury on his hand—must have been cut on the ice—it pulses more and more, notifications of something wrong to his brain, something to fix. But pain is a message he can choose to ignore—it is more important to get Patton back to a healthy body heat that he can sustain on his own. A cut hand is hardly the priority.

When he comes back, first aid kit tucked under his arm and a variety of makeshift warm compresses in his hands, he crouches beside Patton, placing one on the back of his neck. Patton makes a squeaky noise, trying to move away from it, but Logan presses it into place.

"We're heating your major arteries, Patton," Logan says, "so that it'll help provide better internal heat. Neck for the carotid, armpits for brachial, the groin for your femoral. I don't want to unwrap you from your blankets, so could you place them for me?"

"They're too hot," Patton mumbles. Logan forces himself to take a breath— _Patton responds best to pathos, not logos. Appeal to his emotions._

"Patton," Logan says, tempering his voice, making it softer. Patton's eyes took too long to focus on him, and Logan takes note, tries to inject the concern into his voice as best he can.

"It would make me feel... very relieved if you would put these where I tell you, all right? We're all worried about you."

Patton blinks again, and there's something familiar in the way he shifts in his blankets. Something that makes him think _sulky_ , or perhaps— _self-conscious_.

In the next moment, his eyes slide to where Virgil is curled against Patton, who seems to be ignoring the way Logan is imploring Patton, and Logan realizes. The way Patton shifted, just then—it's the way Virgil fidgets in his hoodie whenever there's too much attention on him. The similarity between them is jarring, in that moment. Patton lost his glasses in the river, and the cold brings out the blues and purples in his face. If Virgil would discard his hoodie and they stood side by side—Logan would be hard-pressed to distinguish between them.

For some reason, that makes something in his chest tighten. For once, he doesn't particularly analyze why.

He has to make himself softer, gentler. Logan widens his eyes a little, leans in a little closer, moves his uninjured hand from the compress to let his fingers scratch lightly at Patton's scalp. He makes himself look as entreating as possible. "We just want you to feel warmer, and better, and happier. And these would help warm you up faster, so we can all feel better." He takes another breath, sets his pride aside, and adds, "Please."

Another shift, and then Patton's hands snake out of the blankets, tugging in four of the compresses, and Logan lets out a breath of relief. He runs his fingers through Patton's hair again.

"Thank you. You just need to keep them there for about ten minutes, but they'll make you feel so much better, Patton, I promise."

"Hand," Roman says pointedly, as soon as Patton's adjusted for the compresses, and Logan nods, sitting back and opening up the first aid kit. 

From there, it's almost comforting to focus on a more straightforward injury. Logan tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, and sets to work. Disinfect with a careful, measured inhalation through his nose to keep himself from making any less-than-distinguished noises from the pain. No stitches necessary, thankfully—it's a long but shallow cut, running jagged from the space between his fourth and fifth metacarpals, down the carpals, and jerked suddenly to the side, fortunately away from any important veins.

He places clean white gauze over the wound, and then wraps his hand and wrist in an elastic bandage, to ensure the gauze would stay in place. He flexes and clenches his hand, to ensure it would stay in place, and then it's time to ask Patton to pass the compresses back. He does that with remarkably less of an argument.

Logan decides to reheat their abandoned kettle so they can all have some cocoa, and he's just pouring them new mugs when Patton sniffles.

The other three focus on him with laser-like intensity, and then Patton coughs, and then he says, "Wh-what'd'you c-call a P-patton that falls through th-the ice?"

"What?" Virgil asks, voice soft.

"P-popsicle," Patton stammers out. "G-get it? B-because I'm the dad? And I'm c-cold?"

There's a moment of strained silence that stretches like a rubber band, and then Logan laughs, a bit too hysterical, but he can't bring himself to care—he's too relieved. Reasoning, a joke—marked improvement from Patton's previous state. They're practically out of the woods. Roman joins in next, laughter loud and booming, and Virgil snickers, shaking his head.

 _"Awful,_ Padre," Roman says, but he's grinning and hooking his chin over Patton's shoulder. Logan would wager a hug happened under the blankets, where he can't see. "Truly. I love it."

And they're off again, puns galore as they all sit up and drink their cocoa— _what eight letters can you find in the arctic ocean? h to o! why is slippery ice like music? if you don't c sharp, you'll b flat! why did the snowman want a divorce? because he thought his wife was a flake! where can you find an ocean without water? on a map! where do penguins go to see movies? the dive-in!—_ and it's so much better, now that Patton's aware enough to laugh along.

By the time he's drained his cocoa, he isn't shaking anymore, and the temporary stammer's vanished. He even pops in with a couple more, to Logan's chagrin. ("How is a baby bird like its dad? It's a chirp off the old block!") 

Roman goes to get the supplies for roasting marshmallows, at Logan's urging (carbohydrates and sugar would be good for boosting Patton's energy) and they all gather in front of the fire. Virgil takes over fussing for a while, from there—he makes sure none of the blankets are within the flames' reach, and takes Patton's stick if he thinks his hand's been outside of the blankets for too long, and makes sure Patton won't burn his tongue on any of his marshmallows.

Roman would either bluster off any such attention or play up any such injury to get more attention, and Logan would strain under such care. Virgil would brush it off with a scoff. Patton, though—Patton just smiles indulgently, occasionally hugging Virgil or thanking him, usually with a  _sport_ or  _champ_ or  _sunshine_ tacked on at the end. Each time, Virgil ducks his head and mumbles something like "whatever." Because that's what Virgil needs at the moment: to reassure himself that things are okay, that Patton is okay, and that the worst of it is over now. And Patton must know it; that must be why he isn't squirming under the attention. Patton has always been the most gracious of the four of them. He's much more observant than they give him credit.

Logan turns back to his own marshmallow, only to find Roman looking over at Virgil and Patton, too. It seems he isn't the only one to have that realization. Roman clears his throat when he realizes he's been caught, and drives a nearly-friendly elbow into Logan's ribcage, before swiftly spearing another marshmallow on his stick.

Logan scowls ( _nearly,_ the key word in that phrase) and elbows him back, before popping his own marshmallow into his mouth. 

They work their way through the plate of marshmallows, and Patton's eyes seem to focus on Logan's bandaged hand for the first time with a small noise of dismay. Logan decides to take a page out of his book, and sits still, unprotesting, when Patton takes Logan's hand gently between the both of his.

Patton carefully turns Logan's hand over, inspecting the bandage, and then back over again.

"It's not very serious," Logan says. Distantly, he's aware that Virgil's pulling Roman to his feet, to go make something a bit more substantial to eat and to top off their drinks, but he's too ensnared by this: the heat of the fire, and Patton's cautious touch, like Logan's made of glass. "It should heal up just fine."

Patton hums, and settles for cradling Logan's hand, tracing his fingers along the bumps in the bandage, the protruding squares of gauze. Gently, with such a soft pressure it, bizarrely, makes Logan think of bugs crawling up his arms.

"You were very brave, Logan," Patton says instead. "I'm sorry that you got hurt while you were saving me."

He isn't looking up from Logan's hand, so Logan can only hope that he doesn't see the slight flush to Logan's cheeks. Logan clears his throat.

"Yes, well," he says. "Acceptable loss, a bandaged hand. You... it would be much less so."

A potential future too terrible to even think of, so he sets the thoughts aside.

"Still," Patton says, and his brow is furrowed. It's very odd to see Patton without glasses. He wonders distantly if there's an old pair gathering dust somewhere, or if Roman can materialize a pair, before an idea occurs to him. "I hate that you got hurt."

"I didn't notice it until Virgil pointed it out," Logan says truthfully. "The cold may have been helpful, numbing it."

He reaches up with his free hand, taking off his glasses. He narrows his eyes and blinks, adjusting to the blurry vision, before he reclaims his hand from Patton to tilt up Patton's chin, directing him to look at Logan straight on. He holds up the glasses in explanation. Patton blinks at him, a little confused, and in answer Logan carefully slides his pair of glasses onto Patton's face.

"Our prescriptions are the same, if I recall correctly," Logan says, and fiddles with them so they sit correctly on Patton's nose. 

Even without his glasses, he's close enough that he can see the faint dusting of freckles across Patton's cheeks and nose, the way his lips are slightly parted, the look in his eyes—like Logan has done something extraordinary, revolutionary,  _amazing,_ instead of just handing over a pair of glasses. Logan's fingers brush over the tops of the shells of Patton's ears, and he clears his throat, letting his hands and gaze drop.

Except Patton picks up his injured hand again, and Logan blinks, looking back at him. There is a look of determination in Patton's eyes.

"Well," Patton says, "clearly, you've forgotten the most important part of treating an injury."

Logan blinks. "Impossible. I disinfected and cleaned the wound and bandaged it properly—"

But then Patton's spinning his hand over, palm up, and dropping to kiss it with an obnoxious smacking noise, and Logan's mouth drops open, just a little.

"You forgot to get someone to kiss it better!" Patton declares, and then leans forwards and kisses Logan's cheek with an impossibly  _more_ obnoxious smacking sound, the  _mwah!_ seeming to echo around the room.

_??????????????????????????????_

Patton leans forwards, and gives Logan a short, sweet hug—a squeeze round the shoulders, really. Logan has frozen up, arms trapped awkwardly between them. His cheek is a little wet from where Patton's lips had been. What—what exactly— _what?_

Virgil and Roman choose then to walk in, and Roman declares loudly, "Has Logan had a malfunction?"

All at once, Logan's face _burns_ , and he moves to adjust his glasses, except there's nothing to adjust, so he ends up poking himself in the nose. 

"Now, Roman," Patton says, "Logan just did something very nice, and I was thanking him, is all. What'd you make?"

Roman and Virgil exchange a slightly sheepish glance, and present the plates—quesadillas, if Logan's not mistaken, that were made in the microwave. He supposes that, at least, it isn't burnt.

Roman builds up the fire more while they all eat in relative silence. They've just finished their meal when Virgil says suddenly, "Pat, do you want me to get you some actual clothes?"

Patton's just arranged a blanket vaguely like a toga over his bare chest, with another wrapped around his shoulders. "That'd be great, kiddo," Patton says. "How about some pajamas for everyone? We'll do a slumber party!"

"I'll handle this, Virgil," Roman says, looking excited, and snaps his fingers before anyone can protest.

Logan looks down at himself, prepared for the worst. But it isn't actually all that bad—a navy shirt, and a fuzzy light blue pair of pants with a unicorn print on them. Roman's outfitted in a  _Prince Charming_ shirt and a pair of checkered pajama pants, and Virgil's picking at his thick tank top straps—Logan suspects he's secretly pleased with the _Nightmare Before Christmas_ theme. Patton's is the most eyesearing combination of colors—his top is a very bright rainbow tie-dye t-shirt _,_ and his bottoms are patterned with... some kind of reference, Logan supposes, in a shade of happy purple. 

Logan also drapes a blanket over Patton's shoulders. Just as a precaution. Patton gives him a look that Logan would describe as "fondly exasperated." But he does cuddle into it, wrapping it around himself, and Logan counts it as a victory.

Patton gets to pick the movie, and all three of them groan when Patton reveals "Frozen" with a mischievous smile ("get it? because I was frozen?") but they all settle in—Logan suspects some quirk of Roman's realm, because the floor feels much more like a mattress than an actual floor, now. In any case, there are plenty of throw pillows and blankets sprinkled on the floor, and Logan picks up a blanket at random, resigned to restraining himself from pointing out the holes in reason. And, of course, to Roman's performances, and Patton's acting along, and Virgil's commentary. 

By the time Anna is climbing the impossibly formed ice stairs to her sister's impossibly formed ice castle, all four sides are struggling to suppress yawns. He blames Virgil entirely for yawning the first time, and he'd caught it then, and the pair of them had made swift work of Patton and Roman. Besides, it had been a long day. Sleep would do them all good.

Logan's about to admit defeat, curl up under his blanket and go to sleep, when Patton clears his throat. All three of them turn to him, alert, and he spreads his arms.

"We should all cuddle together," he says decisively. "I got to cuddle plenty, but I didn't get to snuggle with all of you. I mean, if everyone's. Comfortable with that."

Patton. Hesitant. Abnormal. Logan doesn't like it.

"Certainly," he says, a little stiff. "Close physical contact increases oxytocin levels."

Roman, not to be outdone, proclaims, "Of course! That sounds wonderful!"

Virgil shrugs a little, plucks a little more aggravatedly at his tank top straps. He looks oddly bereft without the hoodie. "Sure, I guess," he grumbles.

It doesn't materialize perfectly from there, of course—they have to go and brush their teeth and wash their faces, jostling each other at the sink. And there's a bit of arguing about configuration, and who would be on their back or their side, and gathering and placing of blankets and pillows, and then shifting in their place, getting comfortable. Logan's-now-Patton's glasses are settled safely on the coffee table.

When Logan will wake up, there will be twin wet spots of drool on his shirt. Patton will be sprawled halfway over Logan's body with his hand on Virgil's back, Virgil curled up with his head on Logan's shoulder. And Roman will be the cause of Logan's feet falling asleep, tucked up between Virgil and Logan's bodies as he would be, with his dead weight on Logan's legs and his arms enclosed around Patton's waist. Logan will be sweaty and overheated, and most of his body will have its circulation cut off, and he will have to lay awake, alone and more than a bit uncomfortable, until the others stir from their deep sleep.

But for now, there is only the fluffy state between consciousness and unconsciousness, and the slowly evening breaths of the sides setting rhythm with the troll's song, and Logan—

Logan is secretly grateful for each and every one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "The Frozen Heart (Ice Worker's Song)" from Frozen, because I'm terrible. Tumblr is also [lovelylogans!](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/)  
> [Logan's pajama pants](https://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=122457368)  
> [Virgil's pajamas, kind of](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/2b/89/49/2b89499657f8a9232c1482b5fdc8e73c--womens-pajamas-cotton-pyjamas.jpg)  
> [Patton's pajama pants](https://ih0.redbubble.net/image.53826036.2142/leggings,m,x875,front-bg,ffffff.2u9.jpg)  
> [Roman's pajamas](http://i3.cpcache.com/product/2025381853/prince_charming_tr_copy_pajamas.jpg?color=WithCheckerPant&height=460&width=460&qv=90)


End file.
